Nameless Fear
by Steelfeathers
Summary: One-shot. Ron Witwicky does not like the way Bumblebee looks at his son.  Not slash


**Author's Note: **Set sometime after the first movie and before the second. And, as always with my stories, not slash. I'm not sure I want to imagine how that would even work. 0_e

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><p><strong>Nameless Fear<strong>

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><p>Like most self-respecting guys, Ron Witwicky would rather get a root canal than admit to being terrified of anything.<p>

Well, okay, maybe not a root canal—those things hurt like a son of a gun. But he'd certainly prefer getting a cavity filled than getting caught with his metaphorical manhood pants down. Guys just didn't _do_ scared.

Especially not dads; dads couldn't be scared of anything. They had to be tough. They had to be able to beat up the monster under the bed and send it crying for its mommy. They had to be the one thing their kid could depend upon come hell or high water. And that kind of job description didn't leave any room for being scared.

If _he_ couldn't protect his son from dark shadowy things lurking in the closet, who would?

But staring out the second floor window, a cold and untouched mug of coffee clenched between his hands, Ron Witwicky felt a familiar sense of dread begin to claw at his insides. From his vantage point he could see into the dimly lit interior of the family garage through the open garage door. Surrounded by a suburban backdrop of old bicycles and empty paint cans, the metal monolith sitting hunched over on the concrete floor stuck out like a Japanese steak knife in a box of rusty nails—all gleaming, deadly angles, his purpose unsuited to his environment. Alien and familiar in one. Bumblebee.

A month ago he would have done a double take at seeing a giant robot made from car parts sitting serenely in his garage. But now, a month older and a lifetime wiser, it was almost routine to come home and find a giant robot in his garage or backyard. Almost normal.

Letting out a shaky sigh, he set his mug back on the table, resigning himself to the fact that the coffee had lost all power to district him and send him into a realm of caffeinated bliss. Especially now that it had congealed into something approaching sludge. He had simply been too distracted—too absorbed in his observations—to even sip it. It wasn't the Bumblebee's fault that he had whiled away a perfectly good Saturday morning staring into the open garage. Or well, at least mostly not his fault. Ron had conquered the urge to stare slack-jawed at the alien weeks ago—there was only so long the novelty could last, he supposed. No, he wasn't staring at Bumblebee.

He was staring at Bumblebee _and his son_.

Most days the two were inseparable, becoming something like a package deal in his mind. Too often he caught himself thinking 'Sam and Bee' or 'Bee and Sam' when he should have just been thinking 'Sam'.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? That stupid alien went with his son _everywhere_. Sam no longer needed his dad to drive him to school—he had Bumblebee. Father-son night had been replaced by long-drive-through-the-country-with-my-pet-alien night. Want to go to the movies Sam? Sure, let me grab Bee. If not for the fact that the robot couldn't fit inside his house, it probably would have tried to curl up in bed with his son like an enormous yellow puppy.

But Bumblebee wasn't a puppy. It wasn't cute and harmless, though it often pretended to be, with a skill at mimicry that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end even as Sam laughed at the newest gesture that Ron knew, _knew_, was designed specifically to elicit that laughter. Sometimes Ron thought he was the only one who noticed how glacially cold and empty those blue camera eyes were as the robot expertly manipulated his son-

Ron started in his chair, mentally tripping over the word 'manipulated'. He knew the alien was smart, far smarter than he was, but _manipulative_? He stared harder at the duo in the garage. Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from his son— his only son, his goofy, smart, funny, knuckle-headed kid, who was currently absorbed in trying to fix an old transistor radio he had found in the attic—and glared at hulking monolith of metal sitting beside him, deceptively still. Once again those fathomless blue eyes that were trained quietly on his son.

A thorny shiver scuttled up his spine as he watched the pair from his peripheral vision, fingers tightening reflexively around his mug. He still hadn't released it from his grasp.

No, 'manipulative' wasn't the right word. For all intents and purposes, the alien genuinely seemed to have his son's best interests at heart. It had certainly come to his rescue enough times, god knew. 'Controlling' wasn't right either—_Sam_ was the one who suggested the activities, who chose to go roaring down the back roads in his alien car rather than play scrabble with his dad. As far as Ron could tell, the robot had never once forced him to do anything.

And yet….that was somehow part of the problem. Part of what caused the curl of dread in his gut.

Sighing, he mopped at his face with one hand, trying to get his spiraling thoughts under control.

Judy thought he was being ridiculous, of course, whenever he voiced his suspicions. After her rose beds had been repaired (government tax dollars at work) she seemed remarkably willing to incorporate Bumblebee into their family. Eager, even. He often caught her calling the robot 'sweetie,' as though it were something small and adorable. She didn't have any patience with his grumblings about the robot; she insisted that he was just upset that their son was doing what all teenage boys eventually do and setting out on his own.

Eventually he had given up trying to make her understand, but he couldn't let go of his own paranoia. There was just something _not right_ going on, something that scared the piss out of him. And the worst part was the he couldn't quite grasp was he was afraid of. All he knew was that it was something big and looming, pressing down over the entire house like a dark shadow only he could see.

Down in the garage, Sam abruptly threw down his tools and put his head in his hands. For a moment Ron felt his heart stop—had something happened? Was he hurt? Was there a decepticon moments away from blasting through the wall? His hand clenched around his mug so hard he heard the bones creak.

But then the moment of terror passed and his senses came back to him. His son was unharmed, the world wasn't about to end—the boy had simply gotten frustrated with his self-appointed task and thrown down his tools in a huff. Ron was so relieved that he felt like laughing.

He stared warmly down at his son, a smile beginning to crinkle up his lips, and decided that he'd had enough manly brooding for one day. He'd go down to the garage and lend the kid a hand, then maybe they could see if they couldn't pick up secret government radio signals on the old device.

Bracing one hand on the table to heave himself out of the chair, he took one last look at the pair in the garage—

-and froze.

Bumblebee's hand had moved to rest deliberately on his son's back. Metal digits slowly, carefully, began to rub the human flesh through the thin cotton of his shirt, stroking softly, pacifying. The gesture was intimate—controlled, calculated, and somehow infinitely tender. Each stroke of alien fingers was a whispered prayer. A benediction. A promise. Sam relaxed at the touch, and almost seemed to unconsciously lean into it. But his face was tinged with the kind of friendly annoyance roused by unexpected and exuberant hugs. He didn't understand.

After a moment or two Sam twisted as if to move away, saying something that Ron couldn't hear. But the fingers followed his motion ever-so-slightly, just a bit of continued pressure—not pushing or pulling, simply there—and Sam relaxed into it again. His son looked up at the alien and smiled.

And all at once everything shifted into place.

An enormous hand of stone grabbed hold of Ron's insides and _twisted_. He clutched at the back of the chair for support, suddenly unable to draw a breath, reeling and electrocuted and feeling like someone had dropped him into the arctic ocean. And still his eyes remained glued to the sight of his son sitting on the dusty concrete floor of the garage, an enormous alien hand gently cupping his back. It was like watching a train wreck—couldn't look away.

That touch was more than just a touch. It was calm and patient, so endlessly, agelessly patient, and terrifyingly knowing. It was a symbol of inevitability.

As though sensing his horrified stare, the robot lifted its head and locked eyes with him—bloodshot human brown meeting cool alien blue in a moment of perfect clarity.

Though no words were spoken, those eyes held the very message he had feared all along, the dark shadow that had haunted him since he first saw his little boy with the alien robot.

And Ron realized he had been wrong. Those eyes weren't cold at all—they blazed with a fearful, lonely light. Tinged with sadness and empathy….but not regret.

'_Mine.'_

And in that moment Ron knew he had lost his son.


End file.
